Days K5-9: Emotional Margin Call

March 4, 2025 to March 13, 2025

Those first few days in Seoul, I did what I thought would help me regain a sense of balance: biking along the Han River, eating delicious food, processing everything with AI, partying at pub crawls, and letting the freedom slowly return to my body after years of decay. But no amount of cycling could have fully prepared me for the hit that landed that afternoon. I was on the way to a suburb area to meet up with a Korean language exchange group but it kind of went belly up. I settled at Starbucks instead to chill.

Then an email arrived with the subject line I half expected, half hoped would never come: Salary and Contract Reconciliation.

The letter began coldly: "The following provides reconciliation of your salary and benefits based on you abandoning your job duties with no prior notification after completing the workday on Tuesday, March 4th, 2025."

No hello. No inquiry. No acknowledgment of nearly 15 years of service. Just the word abandoning, followed by a cold spreadsheet-style breakdown of “money owed” — with zero explanation on how I was expected to pay or what the consequences would be if I didn’t. There's no way they would lawyer up, that much I knew. They couldn't even afford to replace textbooks. And if they tried to sue me, what court would hold jurisdiction? In Korea?

Then came the real blows: "This organization confirms that your completion bonus has been canceled for failure to complete your contract. Medical insurance has been terminated effective immediately and a letter of Good Standing will not be issued at any point in the future. It is regrettable that you decided not to complete your 2024-25 contract as the parties intended and signed. Prior to your departure, you did not express your concerns, try to address your concerns, or provide any notice you would be leaving."

And the kicker: "Furthermore, you undertook to share private employment matters with students, representing a breach of professional standards and potentially causing significant reputational damage to the school. As a result, we will share evidence of your conduct with the teacher regulation branch."

There was a ton of gaslighting in there as part for the course and full of factual errors. We could probably spend 5000 words fact-checking all of that, but to save space, my teaching certificate is legit, in complete standing and nothing was done to rescind it.

But at the time, I read the last sentence again, heart pounding. Threats of professional ruin, carefully veiled as “regret.” The word evidence hanging ominously in the air like I was some kind of criminal. It was a gut punch.

I sat frozen. Then I remembered the advice of my closest allies, people who knew the game this organization played. They said one thing, unanimously:

"Do not reply. Do not engage. Block them on every single platform. This is bait."

They were right.

This wasn’t a letter for dialogue. It was a warning shot, a clumsy attempt to reassert dominance over someone they no longer controlled.

But something inside me had already shifted. The fact they responded with bureaucratic rage and weaponized morality only confirmed I had done the right thing. And no, I wasn’t going to get tangled in their guilt traps.

I hit block on every channel. No reply. No argument. No begging for approval. They would never hear from me again.

For obvious reasons, I couldn’t sleep that night. The letter was still echoing in my mind, its cold, calculated tone, the deliberate phrasing designed to punish and erase. Is this how it ends? After nearly two decades in China? After helping thousands of students graduate, writing hundreds of recommendation letters, staying late to mentor struggling kids, and guiding families through the maze of university admissions? None of it mattered. Not even a single line of gratitude: just threats, cancellations, and bureaucratic posturing.

And that was the bitter truth: in the end, you never really settle in China. You’re tolerated, even praised, as long as you play your role in the machine. But the moment you step out of line — especially on your own terms — you’re erased. Like you never existed. Like it was all transactional.

I knew it was insane, but it still felt personal. It felt like they were trying to crush everything I had contributed, not just to the school, but to the students, to the families, and to the dream of building something meaningful. What they sent me wasn’t just a letter; it was a tantrum in official language. It was a toddler throwing toys against the wall because someone said no to them for once.

Even so, it cut deep.

But as the night wore on and the sky slowly lightened outside my window in Seoul, I realized something: this was the price of freedom. Not just physical escape, but emotional and psychological release from a system that had never really seen me, only used me. Moving on wasn’t just the only thing left to do. It was the most powerful thing I could do.

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